agony! The psychic shock exploded through her, jolting every nerve end in her
body.
She came alive. Her eyes burst open. She saw Scale looming over her, staring
down at her, his mouth wide, his jaw spittle flecked.
He whispered “Blood.” His voice was thick, the sound coming from the back of his
throat. He said, “Bleedin’. Ya bitch. Y’evil fuckin’ slut. Ya bleedin’.”
His eyes slowly focused on her face and locked on to her eyes. He was breathing
stertorously, his brutish frame trembling. Then a frown spread slowly across his
scaled face, a frown half of bewilderment, half something else.
Half…recognition. Krysty shivered uncontrollably at that look. She knew it for
what it was.
He suddenly thrust his face down at her and his foul breath gusted over her
face. His left hand shot out, clutched her throat, pulled her half up from the
bed. She gagged in pain and terror. He started to smile as he peered into her
eyes. Then he began to chuckle, a harsh, rasping sound, the ugliest sound.
“Yeah,” he breathed slowly. “I know you, ya bitch.” Triumph suddenly flooded
into his voice. “I know you!” He unclasped his fingers, shoved her back against
the bed, his body shaking as the huge storehouse echoed to the harsh, jarring,
malevolent noise of his cackling.
He flicked open his belt, kicked off his boots. He unzipped his pants, thrust
them down. Still laughing, he exposed himself, his penis thick and erect. He
stroked it, held it firmly, his eyes suddenly narrowing as he stared at her, a
crafty expression sliding across his face.
“Yeah. I know you. I got who you are. Hell of a thing, huh? You know—” his tone
had become bizarrely conversational, “—I was gonna kill ya. But not now. Oh,
flo, not now. Gonna keep ya all for myself!”
He stepped forward, his tongue dragging across his thick lips.
Krysty thought, I was just on the point of it; I was nearly there, so nearly
there. Then she thought, I can still do it. All I need is just a little more
time. Once he’s inside me, then I can do it. It’s the only way. It’s the only
blasted way…
Then she saw his attention had been caught by something else, something above
her. He was staring upward at the ceiling, at the gloom high in the rafters, his
mouth gaping ludicrously, his features frozen into an expression of stunned
shock.
She wrenched her head back, her eyes penetrating the shadows, felt horror and
loathing flood through her as she glimpsed what he was looking at. A glimpse was
all she needed, all she wanted. Clinging to a beam by one suckered hand, its
twin free, the suckers writhing as they groped for the wall, was something she
had never seen before, only heard about.
A sticky.
Scale jumped back frantically, his face livid, his arms swinging wildly. He
shrieked curses as he turned and dashed for the door.
And howled with frenzied fury as another sticky dropped from the shadows above.
At any other time the sight of this half-naked man in a state of near terminal
panic, with his rapidly softening erection, would have been comical. Hilarious.
But Scale was throwing off psychic waves of unadulterated terror. Krysty could
feel it as though it was something physical. He saw death and agony clawing at
him and he wanted neither.
Scale sprang toward the crates, grabbed the nearest weapon to hand, a .45
automatic. The gun stabbed flame, the thunder of the shots filling the barn. He
emptied the mag into the sticky by the door and the sticky took every round, was
thumped back against the wall with their jarring impact.
Krysty saw, with fright-flecked eyes, the slugs slam into greasy flesh around
stomach and thighs. Then saw the creature stagger to its feet, red stuff oozing
from wounds that were not gaping holes but mere liplike slits, already closing
as though sucking the bullets in. The sticky squealed with rage, snorting its
fury down its half-formed nostrils, and lunged at Scale, its sucker hands
outstretched.
Scale tore a box from one of the piles and heaved it at the thing. The